


the space in between

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DH Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 18:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: A modicum of comfort.





	the space in between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smirkingcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smirkingcat/gifts).



> Written as part of the 2018 HP Shore of Angst fest. Originally posted [here](https://hp-shoreofangst.dreamwidth.org/21179.html) and [here.](https://hp-shoreofangst.livejournal.com/22157.html)

It’s a display of pure sadism under the guise of punishment: a poor excuse to execute power, to remind him of who he answers to, who he belongs to. Of what will happen shall he disobey again.

_Torture for torture’s sake._

Severus is merely glad it was a private affair. He’s seen the Dark Lord’s public displays, has played witness to his  _lessons_ , has been the sorry bastard on the ground: throat hoarse and hands grappling at nothing, fingertips bloody as they search for something to hold on to. Everyone watching, staring,  _laughing_. No. The pain is one thing, the agony a sensation he’s almost grown used to, but the humiliation. The degradation. Never once has he considered it a desirable fate. He’d much rather avoid it where he can.

Now, he lies against stone. His body heavy with exhaustion, with pain, with the aftermath of torture. There is blood on his robes and in his hair, the thick crimson swiped across his cheek, his jaw. He can taste it on his tongue, the metallic tang blending with the acidic stench of bile. All of it pungent and mephitic and far too much like fear.

He needs to move. He knows he needs to move, to leave before someone sees him. He wants it, too, only it’s not exactly an option, not now, not when his body still convulses with the pain, not when every attempt to stand ends in his knees buckling, his body betraying his own command.

_Not quite used to it, then._

There’s a faint click in the distance, a tell-tale sound of the door unlocking. Severus stills, tries to stifle his ragged breathing, curses his own bad luck. He curls a hand around his wand, a futile attempt to ready himself for a fight shall he need to. He can’t quite see the doorway from where he is, but he can hear the footsteps—soft, gentle, hesitant. Familiar.

Draco’s blonde head peaks around the corner, his body coming into view a moment later. He’s alone, thankfully, and Severus feel his body relax slightly, the act subconscious. He sighs, the sound pained. Watches as Draco comes closer, eyes his body. The grimace he gets says more than Draco ever will.

Draco’s wand is in his hand, fingers pale against the dark wood. Severus listens as the vomit is spelled away first, the stench disappearing with it. The blood on the floor comes next, the spells falling from Draco’s lips like a practiced prayer. Severus chooses not to think of how many times he’s done this. Of how many times he’s had this done to him.

And then, once the worst of it is gone, Draco crouches beside Severus—crouches beside him just as Severus has done for Draco, over and over. He stares, frown pulling at his mouth as he takes in Severus’ still shaking form. A hand lifts, a knuckle ghosting over the gash along Severus’ jaw, and Severus jolts lightly. Turns his head away from the touch.

Draco sighs, drops his hand. “Crucio?”

Stupid question. It’s rarely anything else these days.

Severus grunts, and Draco nods. Reaches into his back pocket to pull out a potion Severus is more than familiar with. The vial is uncorked, the glass brought to Severus’ lips, and he drinks it without issue, drinks it just as he knows he needs to.

The singular potion is not enough—nowhere near it, if he’s truthful—but it does ease some of the pain. Helps get rid of the worst of it.

“Come,” Draco murmurs, slipping an arm beneath his shoulders to help him up. Now is no time to argue, so Severus allows the help. Is silently grateful for it as he struggles to his feet.

He has to lean on Draco to walk, has to clench his jaw and breathe through his nose to stifle the pained grunts that itch in his throat. Draco holds on to him, one arm secure around his back while Severus’ sits slung over his shoulder. His wand is still in his hand, ready shall he need it, his mouth shut. Silent as they pass through the Manor’s halls.

It’s only once they’re nearing the door that Severus realises where Draco has taken him. He turns his head to look at him, arches a questioning brow, but Draco ignores it. Pushes the door to his own bedroom open and pulls Severus inside.

The bed is warm and soft, the potion Draco hands him powerful and fast acting.

He’s unconscious in mere minutes.

[]

When he wakes, it’s to the quiet rustle of paper, two pieces brushing over each other as a page is turned. His head throbs, the pain dull and irritating but at least bearable. His ruined robes have been discarded, his body clad in only trousers where he lies, secured beneath a heap of blankets. His bones ache—the sensation strange and inexplicable: something only the Cruciatus is capable of.

Draco sits in an armchair beside him, his expression tired and unguarded as he stares at the book in the lap. Severus shifts slightly, the sound of rustling sheets drawing Draco’s attention to him. Their eyes meet, Severus’ gaze unblinking. Contemplative.

Their relationship is... complicated. Not as hostile as it had been in the past year, but perhaps not as friendly as it was before that, either. Severus looks after him still, even now, even when he doesn’t have to, and in return Draco is amenable. Easier to handle. Helpful, even.

Only, of course it isn’t that simple.

“I healed what I could,” Draco says, breaking the silence. He places his book to the side, stands to retrieve a small tray full of potion vials. “We’re running low,” he tells Severus, placing the tray on the edge of his bed, “but this should do.”

Severus sits, leans back against the cushioned headboard, and takes what he needs to. Draco watches, and Severus can see the questions that sit on the top of his tongue. Knows they’re coming even before Draco has opened his mouth.

“What happened?” he asks, settling down on the bed’s edge, his hip brushing the bump of Severus’ leg. “What’d you do?”

Severus sighs. If only he knew, he thinks. If only any of them knew just how much he’s  _disobeyed._

“I was in the wrong place,” is all he says, and it’s not quite a lie, but, like so much of his life, it’s not the truth either.

Draco scoffs. “You’re never where you’re meant to be,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in three weeks.”

And—well. Yes, Severus thinks. But that is rather the point. He has no desire nor intention of involving anyone else in his tasks. Not when the job he’s been given is a path to inevitable death.

“The Carrows are enjoying your absence,” Draco continues when he doesn’t speak. “You should see what they did to—” He cuts off. Lets the words die on his tongue as if he’s just realised that now isn’t the time to discuss it. “Are you coming back to the castle?”

“When I can,” Severus responds, unsurprised to see Draco roll his eyes. “There are things I need to do,” he explains and it’s as much as he’s going to offer.

Draco opens his mouth, ready to argue, to demand more information, and Severus sighs again. Leans forward, his hand reaching to grasp Draco’s wrist. The touch makes Draco still, makes his mouth clamp shut, his eyes dropping to stare at where skin meets skin: Severus’ touch uncharacteristically gentle as the pad of his thumb presses against Draco’s pulse point.

“Do not worry,” he murmurs, as reassuring as he can possibly be, and Draco quiets. Exhales. His body deflating as the air leaves him; his bite disappearing, until all that’s left is exhaustion and thinly veiled fear. He looks up, and Severus understands the emotion in his eyes. Has seen in mirrored in many men. Has felt it himself.

War is no time for sentiment, and yet it’s not something easy to resist.

When he falls asleep for a second time, it’s with Draco’s body tucked against his side.


End file.
